Scarlett
by mysterywalker
Summary: Captured on his 15th birthday, Harry escapes. Emerging in the bowels of Knockturn Alley with amnesia and no wand, can he survive long enough to learn who he can trust to help him?


Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me; he belongs to JK Rowling. I just borrowed him and his world for a while.

He strained against his ropes, hissing as the rough cords rubbed mercilessly through the skin on his wrists. He could feel them loosening, he could, it wasn't just wishful thinking and he was going to get himself out of this fine bloody mess he'd gotten himself into.

Also, he was going to kick Dung's drunken head in when he got out of here.

"Oh, it'll be fine Harry," he muttered savagely to himself. "They wouldn't let me be here if I couldn't protect you. One quick drink for your birthday, they'll never know." One of Harry's wrists was bleeding now, but his hand was almost out. "You're only fifteen once. Sirius would've done it if he could've been here! OW, fuck," he hissed. But he'd got his hand out, and made short work of the rest of his bindings. Harry supposed he was lucky the Death Eater who'd captured him was shit at the Stunning spell and it'd worn off fairly quickly. Not quickly enough, however, as Harry had woken to find himself tied up in someone's horribly decorated living room without a wand.

On the plus side, he couldn't hear the presence of anyone else in the vicinity. On the negative side, that probably meant whoever had captured him had buggered off to fetch the Dark Lord Voldemort.

Harry shivered briefly at the thought of facing down Voldemort without a wand again, then collected himself and looked around for a makeshift weapon. It just didn't seem real. Even the pain in his wrists was muted and dull. Was this what it was like to be drunk, or had he just hit his head while unconscious? Or kicked in the head, Harry supposed, approaching the fire slowly. He wouldn't put it past those gits to have had a little go at him while he was unable to do anything back.

He looked around quickly, taking in his surroundings. No windows, one heavy door. What a bloody depressing room. Harry tried the door carefully, but it was locked. Magically or otherwise, he couldn't tell, but it was fairly obvious he wasn't going anywhere that way without making a racket.

Harry reached the fire - it looked small and unimportant in the massive grate - and reached for the pot on the mantle that had caught his eye. And grinned, as he peered inside to see a pile of sparkling emerald dust inside. That was his way out sorted, at least.

And his weapon, he reckoned, setting the pot down and pulling a thick, flaming stick from the fire and hefting it experimentally. Hot ash cascaded down and left a burning trail down his hand and arm, but he managed not to drop it and bit down his cry of pain. Just in case.

Feeling was starting to return to him. His heart was beating almost like a hummingbird's; panic and excitement and anger and guilt twisting together in a surge of adrenaline. Panic that he had a stick on fire while there could be anything and anyone waiting for him. Excitement he finally had something to bloody do after the worst summer ever. Anger some wanker had nicked his wand and gone to sacrifice him to Voldemort. Guilt Dung was probably going to get the life throttled out of him when Sirius found out he'd passed out drunk on guard duty and left Harry by himself in a shady pub full of even shadier characters. And a deeper guilt that Cedric had died so Harry could carry on and the first chance he got, he'd fucked off out of the protective wards, gotten his guard drunk, gotten himself captured and was going to be murdered rather soon.

Well, decided Harry stubbornly, gripping his stick tightly. Not if he could help it. He was going to get his wand back if he had to stick this stick up the arse of every Death Eater Voldemort had guarding this place.

Harry marched up to the door, looking more brave than he felt, put his hand on the cold, silver handle, focused all of his will and might and said:

"Alohomora!"

Nothing happened. Harry glared.

"Fucking door. Alohomora!"

This time, he actually hurt his brain concentrating so hard. And was that...was the door _sniggering_?

"Are you laughing at me?" snapped Harry, beginning to nurse a bad mood. "You'd better open up now, you fucking useless plank of wood or I'll - FUCKING HELL!"

He snatched his hand away from the door and looked in horror at the blood streaming from his palm from two neat cresent shaped holes.

"You bit me," said Harry in disbelief. That was a lot of blood. "You little bitch. You fucking bit me."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," replied the door snidely. "Is that all you can say?"

Harry felt the most appropriate response was to thwack the door with his flaming stick. It didn't even leave a scorch mark.

"Oh, how rude!" said the door. It sounded shocked. "That was uncalled for, you little twerp. I could've had your hand off but I thought no, I'll just give a little nip to warn this kid I'm just doing my job, no hard feelings but then you go and hit me with a fiery torch. _Well then._"

"I...what?" Harry was beginning to feel a little dizzy. "I just wanted to get out!"

"Well you've no bloody chance now," snapped the door. "Ungrateful boy! Sound the alarm!"

And a deafening klaxon call began to blare.

"Fuck," said Harry again. It was slowly becoming his new favourite word.

He tried to run to the fire but only managed a kind of drunken totter. Little nip. Yeah right. His hand was starting to look a little green, Harry thought as he staggered towards the Floo powder, revulsion slowly rising up his gullet. Like Ron's when Norbet bit him in first year.

Moaning sickly as he flexed his wounded hand, he grabbed a sticky handful and threw most of it into the fire, grateful when it blazed up into emerald flames and slightly confused when the powder mixed with his blood seemed to clog up his bite marks with a green, shimmering gunk. Wasn't the time to worry about that, Harry reasoned dully, as the door crashed open behind him and a spell of some sort took a chunk of the stone mantle off. Where could he go? Where had a Floo connection? He couldn't go to the Burrow in case he was followed. Hogwarts? No, he was bleeding badly and who would be there? He didn't suppose the teachers lived there in the holidays too. His best bet, since Voldemort seemed to want to stay on the down low, was to get to Diagon Alley and hide.

"Diagon All - ERK" he said articulately, as someone grabbed him by the throat from behind. Black spots danced in front of his eyes as his air was cut off, but Harry was suddenly furious and was having none of this. He brought his arm down viciously and whacked his attacker in the legs with a large piece of wood. Which was on fire. It seemed to do the trick, as someone howled (and spat a little) in his ear, and shoved him away - into the fire.

Harry barely had time to choke out his destination before the fire took him; whirling through dozens and dozens of fireplaces, making him scream and inhale a mouthful of ash as his elbow was knocked almost hard enough to fracture it, throwing him against the sides of the chimnies so his arms and back were grazed and bumped, spinning him round til he thought he would faint until finally it spat him out forcefully across a sparsely carpeted floor - and headfirst into a stone wall. Someone screamed, something smashed.

Everything was blurry and dark. Even darker were the two person shaped shadows bending over him but as he struggled to get up and run, everything started to run together and he fell sideways.

The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was a female voice exclaiming in surprise: "Good lord, that's Harry Potter!"

"Ah, I do so enjoy my visits here," giggled Emmeline Vance, tipping the last of her chardonnay down her throat.

"J_e suis magnifique, c'est vrai,_" winked the broad, dark haired woman opposite her. "I knew you would like it here, _cherie_," she continued, plucking the half empty bottle of wine from the table beside her and the glass from Emmeline's hand. "You understand that some things must be done out of necessity, but it does not mean it has to be all terrible."

"War can do that," murmured Emmeline, with half a smile. "Though, speaking of terrible, what of the name you go by now? Madam...what was it?"

"Madam De Gournay," declared the other woman proudly. "After the woman who said '_happy are you, if you do not belong to this sex to which all good is forbidden'._ Pah! A little outdated now, but you see, I make a joke. We are plenty good, and plenty forbidden, as are my boys! All sexes are equal in this work! HA!"

Emmeline didn't find it funny at all, but Diane had lived in France a very long time and had always been a little odd so she smiled indulgently.

"Here, let me give you more chardo -"

Suddenly, the fire flared bright green, and a dark shape rocketed across the room, slamming into the opposite wall. Diane screamed loudly and dropped the wine bottle on the floor. It smashed, sending a wave of wine and glass over both the ladies' bare feet, but Emmeline ignored it and was on her feet, wand in hand, extinguishing the fire and throwing a quick ward over the fireplace to prevent newcomers. Then, she hurried over to the intruder.

Muggle clothes. Likely not a goon of You-Know-Who. Bloody, burnt and dirty. Rapidly losing consciousness. Why, it was just a boy, noted Emmeline with surprise. She leaned closer, Diane creeping over to peer at him too. He lifted himself up on his elbow, allowing her a glimpse of his unfocused, bright green eyes before he fell sideways and they began to droop.

"Good lord!" she exclaimed, almost dropping her wand. "That's Harry Potter!"

His eyes closed.

"_Mon dieu,"_ said Diane wonderingly. "He is just a boy!"

"Something's happened," said Emmeline sharply. She threw a glance at the fireplace nervously, and scanned Potter quickly. "Tergeo." Blood and soot siphoned itself off him to reveal a slightly cleaner, skinny teen, covered in scrapes, cuts, burns and bruises.

"He is so small," Diane said, more softly. "Who would do this to a child?"

"I have an idea," said Emmeline grimly. "Listen, there's not much time. I don't need to impress upon you the importance of this boy, do I? He mustn't be found." Diane nodded uncertainly. "Diane, there may be someone following. I need you to take him and hide him while I try and track, then erase the trail. When I come back, don't even admit you know what I'm talking about until I answer a question only I'd know the answer to. Do you understand?"

Diane's eyes filled with tears and she put her hand to her breast.

"_Non! _I cannot! I have no magic!"

"You must!" snapped Emmeline hotly. "You can't stop them from finding us here and I can't do both things at once. Your Anti-Apparition wards stop me from taking him and I couldn't Floo him in that condition. Please! You must disguise him as best you can - if he's found it will be the end for us all, you know that?"

"_Oui. _Yes, I understand," said Diane softly.

"I'll send for help as soon as I've sorted the fireplace," she said, allowing Diane a small but stern smile. "But now, time is running out. Go." And she began to cast, spell after spell after spell.

Madam De Gournay, or Diane, as she was known to only Emmeline Vance, was a Squib. Cousin to the aforementioned lady, she had no other family and few other friends. Acquaintances, she had many, for she was the proprietor of a small _exotic dancing_ club in the bowels of Knockturn Alley. She was better known, however, for the small prostitution ring she ran from the same building. In France, they had looser views on such things. In the war, they had driven vans of whores to the soldiers and that practice still went on today, minus the soldiers. She had dreamed of building a more classy business here in England but...everyone had to start somewhere. It could still happen.

She was a hard woman when she had to be; which was a lot in this line of business, nobody could deny that. And so she slammed on her game face as Emmeline began to mutter spells at the darkened fire grate, and screamed for her two favourites – Benjamin and Kirsten. They appeared in the doorway, Kirsten in a floaty pink translucent nightie which she might as well have not been wearing and Benjamin in proper clothes but barefooted.

"Lift," she commanded Benjamin. "To my special quarters and let no-one follow." She silently thanked Benjamin for just doing as he was told without asking why. "Kirsten, my sweet, I need you to bring me _la boîte magique_ and be quick about it!" Kirsten looked like she was about to ask questions but a quelling glare from her mistress made her think twice. She ran off.

"Emmy," said Madam, retreating to the door. "Be safe." Emmeline nodded.

"Thank you."

Madam had a small suite hidden behind a bookcase in her quarters. It had a few small rooms and a bathroom and she kept it exclusively for her three girls and one boy to work in. It was there Kirsten met Madam with a largish box (more of a trunk). One of the rooms had its door closed and Madam was standing in front of it imposingly, a heavy poker in hand.

"Who is that person?" she asked curiously, depositing the box in front of her mistress gently. "What happened?"

Madam surveyed her grimly.

"The world is cruel, my dear," she said with a sigh, and sent Kirsten away.

Once the girl was gone, Madam dragged the box into the room and locked the door securely behind her. Carved runes around the door flared slightly as the lock closed, activating the carefully set wards.

"Mistress Diane?" asked Benjamin tentatively. She smiled tightly at him, and popped open the box. It was filled with potions and lotions and feathers and glitter. She rummaged in the bottom and pulled out a long case.

"I would not ask were it not most important," she said, presenting the case to Benjamin. "My dearest friend and cousin has had me swear my protection of this boy...I think you may know of him? This is Harry Potter and he is in grave danger." Benjamin flinched. "I do not know much of this boy; I am without magic and I have been separated from your world a long time. But I am old enough to remember the last Great War and Emmeline tells me he is the key to stopping the next one coming."

Benjamin looked down at the kid on the bed. He was small, lanky and unassuming. Dark, messy hair, pale skin and hand-me-down clothes.

"Doesn't look like much," he said, voice hoarse.

Diane smiled.

"Neither did you," she said. "And look at you now - beautiful, dashing and filled with artistic soul. Sometimes one needs a little help, and why should we not be the ones to give it? All we need is to hide him away until either Emmeline comes for him or he wakes and can contact someone. It is not much to ask, no?"

Benjamin took the case, opening it with his thumbs. A long, pale wand sat in a velvet cushion.

"Those wards will not hold for long, if someone skilled were to come," he said reluctantly. "I did not set them at my best and they are not meant for assaults. A disguise would be best, but he is very recognisable in the magical world. I knew who he was as soon as I saw him," admitted Benjamin, a little sourly. He did not appreciate being called on to do magic after he had promised himself he would never again pick up a wand. But it was an emergency, and being of wizarding blood he knew full well how important this kid was.

"I have already thought of that," said Madam, a little smugly. "Listen -" and she told him her plan.

It was brilliant.

Madam had Benjamin clean the boy up. He was bleeding and unconscious and one of his hands was an alarming shade of green. Her box had an emergency supply of healing potions in case someone got a little over excited, and that combined with Benjamin's limited healing knowledge seemed to be enough to restore the hand to normal. His wrists were scraped and burned - that was easily taken care of. His hand had a deeper cut, which Benjamin eventually got to close up but he said it would easily open back up unless someone more skilled than he got to it before the boy healed naturally. They bandaged it.

Unfortunately, the boy's head injuries were more than Ben could manage. He got the swelling down but suspected further injury. A proper healer would be able to sort him out though, once he was safe.

Then, it was Madam's turn. She selected a few potions from the trunk and studied them absently.

"What colour are his eyes?" she asked Benjamin, who was torn between marvelling at the simple genius of the plan and giggling at what the boy's reaction would be when he woke up and found a mirror.

"Green," he said. "He has big, beautiful green eyes."

And Madam tossed all but two of the potions back into the case and buried it back underneath the mess of feather boas and pots of make-up. With Benjamin's help, she got the unconscious boy to swallow the first, and then clapped with glee as it began to work. Harry's dark, messy hair began to grow.

"I do not understand how you can stop yourself doing this sort of thing every day," said Madam, fascinated. The hair slithered over the satin pillow like glossy snakes. Benjamin stayed grimly silent, but helped Madam sit the boy up once it stopped growing, and held him still as she quickly chopped a sweeping fringe and some layers into the long hair. Ben Vanished the hair and laid the kid back down so they could feed him the next potion.

Even Benjamin was silently impressed by the next one - deep, burgundy red blossomed from the roots of his hair and spread down the lengths. However, that would only last a week or so and it was very expensive. After that, if the boy liked his new colour, he would have to get his own or dye it Muggle style.

Madam allowed herself a grin. The kid was unrecognisable already. She ordered Benjamin to get rid of the boy's baggy, oversized clothes - he incinerated them with glee - while she pulled a large make-up palette from her trunk and set to work. She covered the unusual scar on his forehead, then smoothed his new fringe over it gently. Then, she handed the palette over to Ben, who rolled his eyes and used his wand to apply eye make-up more quickly and precisely than she could.

"I can't believe you got me to use magic after all this time to do a makeover," he complained.

"You love makeovers," retorted Diane, diving into the trunk for the last time, throwing clothing at Ben, who huffed and gently wrestled the still unconscious kid into the entirely immodest outfit. He was going to have a fit when he woke up.


End file.
